


love is more thicker than forget

by whyyesitscar



Series: past lives [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: Clarke and Lexa have saved the world again and are settling into the new one when a call from Abby knocks them for a loop: Jake is turning sixty. Clarke can still remember watching him die./or, the reincarnation au continues and gets even fluffier





	

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, thank you all so much. i was pretty blown away by the response to the first story, so here's a second one! i'm thinking this series is going to have two more installations, but who knows when those will get written. in the meantime, please enjoy this one. 
> 
> lyrics at the beginning are from "book of love" by peter gabriel, and the title is from an e.e. cummings poem of the same name. (i'm convinced he wrote poetry specifically for me to use as inspiration for stories.)

_the book of love is long and boring,_  
and written very long ago.  
_it's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes,_  
_and things we're all too young to know._

 _(but i, i love it when you give me things._  
_and you, you ought to give me wedding rings.)_

/

“So, when are we going to meet this charming woman of yours?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s exactly what your mother does when she’s frustrated and you wish you hadn’t inherited the habit from her, but it’s so goddamn satisfying.

“Mom, you’ve already met Lexa.”

“Com-plant video chats don’t count, Clarke.”

“It’s not a com-plant, it’s—” You stop yourself when you remember that, yes, you _do_ call them com-plants. It’s not a TCI; it’s not, it’s not, it’s not. Someday you will stop absorbing others’ quirks. 

“Anyway,” you sigh, “you’ve met her. You like her. She likes you and she _loves_ Dad. Possibly more than she loves me.”

“We’re not getting any younger,” your mom presses. “In fact…”

“Oh, no. Are you throwing Dad a big party again?”

“Well, you know, a person only turns sixty once.”

 _Not always_ , you think. “If I bring a bunch of friends will that get you off my back?”

“Will Lexa be one of those friends?” 

“That kind of goes without saying.”

“Which is why you didn’t say it, I’m sure.”

“Mom.” 

“Take a week off work. We’ll make a vacation out of it.”

She disconnects before you even have to a chance to protest.

/ 

It isn’t until later that you fully process what she said.

Your dad is turning sixty. Your dad is alive and turning sixty. Your dad, who was flung into space before you turned eighteen, is alive and turning sixty.

Lexa finds you like that, marveling at the fact that you remember your dad dropping you off at college. He helped you buy a house and he bought you a briefcase when you started working for the council. (You make a promise to use it more.) Lexa finds you sitting on the couch, fiddling with the clasp of that briefcase, two hours into a comedy cast you were never watching in the first place. 

“Haven’t you seen this one?” she asks as she sits down next to you.

“Which one?”

“Clarke?” 

“I’ve seen all of them.”

“I know.”

“My mom wants us to visit them.”

“Soon?”

“Next month.”

“The _whole_ month?” Lexa sounds scandalized and you can’t help laughing.

“No, just for a week.”

“Oh. Just out of the blue, she asked this?”

“It’s my dad’s birthday.”

“Oh.” She hums a little, deep and long and full of understanding, even though she won’t ever really understand because she wasn’t there. Both of you existed in the same one but grew up in two different worlds. 

“Did you get much time with your parents?”

“When?”

“Either time.”

Lexa sighs and twists a strand of your hair. “No.”

You smile even though you’re sad. “If the answer is the same, why did you need me to clarify?”

“The answer is the same. The time was different. I will tell you all about them, Clarke.”

“Just not now.”

“Just not now. First, you need to tell me about this party we’ve been sucked into.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, trying not to surrender to the lump in your throat. “My mom does this every few years, whenever someone has a significant birthday or my grandma’s gone too long without any grandkids to pester. It’s not really that big of a deal, actually.”

“But it will be this year.”

“For me.”

“For you,” Lexa repeats, kissing your temple. This is what you love about her, the breadth of her compassion and empathy. Lexa understands so quickly, and what she doesn’t understand she is willing to let you explain until she does. You wonder how much she might have understood back then, if only you’d had the time.

It would have changed your life.

“I told my mom I’d bring a few people.” 

“Raven and Lincoln?”

“And you.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

You tickle her side until she cracks. “That’s what I said. Yes, of course you. Always you.”

“There has to be a first time before always, Clarke.”

“You’re being a pedant again.”

“And here I thought I was being romantic.”

“A romantic pedant, then.”

She kisses your hair this time.

“Okay.”

/

Lincoln has taken to closing his shop whenever you or Lexa come in. Sometimes you have a look about you, he says. ( _Every time?_ you ask, and he won’t answer.) You’re pretty sure you know what he means though, because you’ve never been good at keeping your worries from your face. And sure, you’ll come in here to get a few flowers for Lexa once or four times a week. But mostly you find your way to his cozy hole in the wall when you have questions about time.

Thankfully, you aren’t costing him any sales when you walk in today. It’s empty and late in the day and he all but sighs in relief for an excuse to stop sweeping.

“I have some beers in the back,” he says. You brandish two cartons of chocolate milk instead and laugh when he raises an eyebrow. 

“I have a question.” It’s stupid to say—you _always_ have questions—but you’ve never been able to follow anyone in silence. Lincoln leads you to his secret patio and you talk to remind him you’re there. 

(Lincoln never forgets you’re anywhere, but still. Sometimes you think you might.)

“You never stop having questions, Clarke.”

“Well, there’s a lot to talk about.”

Lincoln sprawls out on his favorite lounge chair while you tuck into a wicker loveseat. If Octavia were around this time, you’re sure she would get on him about his catalogue-style.

“Which one is it this time?”

For a moment you’re surprised and then you remember that Lincoln is the keeper of your memories. The keeper of time or the keeper of loss, depending on how guilty you’re feeling at any given moment.

“My dad.”

“It’s always your dad.”

“It’s his birthday next month.”

“The seventeenth?”

“Yeah.” He’s out of chocolate milk already. You should have brought four more.

“The day never changes.”

Lincoln gives you bits of comfort in moments just like this. You have existed (you will exist) in different worlds and times and stories, but there are some things even reincarnation can’t change. Your father is born on some month’s seventeenth; Lexa clasps her hands behind her back when she’s about to ask you something important; Raven is never far from an explosion. Sometimes, when you can ponder the concept of time without sweating, you wonder if Raven would cause the first explosion if you traveled back far enough.

“Has anybody ever remembered anything after they died?”

“Does ‘anybody’ mean you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean by remembered?”

You shift in your seat and bounce the plastic milk bottle off your arm. “Every time I meet someone I already knew from before, I wonder how much they remember. And I guess that applies to my parents, too. The City of Light…”

You take a breath and twist the bottle cap, waiting. To be ready, to be okay—whichever comes first, really. It’s still a tough thing to think about.

“The City of Light,” you try again, “had dead people. Lexa died but she was there and I could talk to her, and I just wonder if my dad—is there any way that things that happened after he died are somehow in his memory?" 

“Do you want them to be there?”

You shrug. “It’ll be nice if my mom remembers. I can finally explain some things I was too sad to explain the first time. But my dad, he would get it. He would get what it means to have Lexa back if some part of him knew her the first time around.” 

Lincoln nods. “That would be nice.”

“But it’s not how it works.”

He shakes his head. “If anyone else has been appointed Keeper of Time, I’ve yet to hear about it.”

“Well, great.” You sit in silence for a few moments, for as long as you can bear, and then—

“Hey, Lincoln? You wanna come to a birthday party for my dead dad next month?” 

“Sure.”

/

(Raven is easy to convince, which you’re sure should petrify you.

“Free food?”

“Yep.” 

“Free booze?”

“Within reason.”

“Science?”

“Absolutely forbidden.” 

“That’s lame, Clarke.”

“Raven, it’s a birthday party.”

“Will there be cake?” 

“…Yes?”

“Do you know what bakes cakes, Clarke?” 

“Please don’t tell me.” 

“ _Science._ ”

“I’m getting flashbacks to the first time we met and you know what, you’re uninvited.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No, you’re not; please help me through this difficult time in my life.”)

/

You’re sure the drive to your parents’ is the most nervous you’ve ever been in any life, and you only remember two of them. Technically, it’s not a drive because all cars are self-operating and you can’t even sit in the driver’s seat anymore, but it feels too juvenile to call it a ride. So you push the misnomer aside and fidget in your chair, your pants squeaking against the cool imitation-leather.

“Clarke.”

She says your name in that way she always has, and that grounds you more than anything.

“You’ll be fine”, Lexa says, her hand secured against your thigh. “They’re your parents.”

“I don’t know about your parents, Lexa, but mine had a way of making everything _not_ fine.” 

Lexa quiets and squeezes her hands between her legs. You feel cold.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” You lay your hand on the seat between you and wait for her to take it. (She always will.) “Do you miss your family?”

“Which one?” Lexa asks, and it isn’t until she turns to look at you, eyes wide and brows furrowed, that you realize she genuinely means it.

“My people had one family,” you try to explain. “Or, well, you belonged to one family. Those that were related to you by blood.”

“That is the family I remember least,” Lexa murmurs. “I can’t speak for the other clans, but Trikru had many families. My _nomon_ and _nontu_ were my first but not my only. Warriors, Nightbloods, even Titus.” She scoffs and rests her chin on her fingers, looking out of the window. “As Heda, I—I belonged to many families,” she sighs. “Those are the ones I miss.”

“Well,” you say, grasping her other hand again, “get ready to belong to one more. I think you’re gonna like us.”

Lexa smiles. “I already do.”

Her smile is shrewder than you were expecting, and it’s only then that the ball drops—Lexa knew your mother. Lexa remembers her.

“What are we gonna do?”

Lexa doesn’t bother to ask for clarification. “We’ll figure it out if we need to, Clarke. I never had a problem facing off with Abby.”

Even hearing her say your mom’s name gives you flutters in your chest. “Lexa, please don’t go all Commander on her.”

“I am capable of tact and diplomacy.”

“See, you’re doing it right now. Talk to her like you’re not the leader of the entire world. At least _pretend_ to like her.”

Lexa frowns and you can tell it’s sincere. “I liked your mother, Clarke.”

“This is the worst pretending I’ve ever seen.”

“I respected her,” she continues, “in the brief time we had.”

You can’t imagine Lexa saying anything she didn’t fully believe, and so you have no choice but to believe her as well. You lean your head onto her shoulder. Lexa always smells familiar and safe.

“The world really fucked us over, huh?”

Lexa nods so slightly you almost miss it. “I don’t think we really realized how much we could have changed.”

“Maybe we just wanted it too much.”

“No. Nobody else wanted it enough.”

/

Your parents’ house is just like you remember it, expansive without being imposing but still unmistakably the house of a wealthy family. Lexa holds your hand as you walk up the steps and you hope she never lets go.

“It will—”

“Clarke!” 

Abby Griffin barrels into you, interrupting Lexa’s reassurances, and you aren’t sure how you’re supposed to hug her—as her daughter now; as her daughter in the past? Your hands freeze, hovering away from her back as you try to sort out your feelings. But her hair is the same shade of brown, her face looks ten years younger than it should, and you can see your dad lurking in the hallway. Your hands come to life and you press them against her back, and she is real and she is warm and she’s your mom.

You hope she never remembers that she outlived you.

“And Lexa!” You’re tossed aside as your mom engulfs Lexa in just as big of a hug. She squeaks out a surprised ‘oh!’ and you find yourself wanting to cry a little bit. And then your dad pulls you into his chest and you find yourself wanting to cry a lot.

“The door’s still open,” you mumble against him, hoping he won’t hear the hitch in your throat. “Mom’s gonna get cold.”

“She’ll live,” he laughs, and you break.

You hiccup and everything stops, no one is smiling anymore and Lexa’s hand has found your back.

“Sorry,” you say, trying to dismiss your feelings with a wave; you let out a nervous giggle when that doesn’t work. “Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Clarke—”

You sniffle and wipe your eyes. “I’m gonna head upstairs. Lexa, can you grab the…you know, the—”

“Yep.” She hoists her duffel bag over one shoulder and rolls your suitcase to the stairs, throwing a hasty apology over her shoulder to your parents.

Lexa follows you into your room, dropping the bags as soon as the door is closed.

You cry yourself into silence. This is a hurt that you have to feel alone, but Lexa holds you all the same. 

/

You only remember Lincoln and Raven when your com-plant warms behind your ear.

“Lexa, somebody’s calling me.”

“I can’t answer for you, Clarke.”

“Yeah but can you call them back?”

“Of course.”

You close your eyes and listen to her heartbeat as Lexa calls Lincoln. 

“They’ll be here in twenty minutes,” she finally says.

“Okay.”

“We should probably go back downstairs.” 

“Downstairs has my parents.”

“Who are probably quite confused.”

“They can understand later.”

“We can’t hide up here forever, Clarke.”

“Okay, so how about just a week?”

“That constitutes forever, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“It’s situational.”

“Forever is situational?”

Lexa sighs against your neck. “Are you sure you’re not Raven in a Clarke-suit?”

You lean back to look at her, finally smiling. “Boy, now I really wish I’d gotten to see some of your brainstorming sessions.”

“Oh, don’t remind me.”

Lexa slides her hand down your arm, stopping when she gets to your hand. She kisses you and your fingers entwine. She is long and solid.

“You good?” she checks.

“Yeah,” you say, heaving a deep breath. “We should at least warn my folks about Raven.” 

“Clarke, nobody is adequately warned about Raven.”

“I—okay. Yeah. But we can try.” 

Your parents are waiting in the kitchen for you, and they slide two mugs of something hot toward both you and Lexa. Hot chocolate, you recognize as you taste it, with that extra Griffin kick.

“What a greeting,” Lexa remarks as she swallows her first sip.

“Well, you know.” Your dad is all smiles again. “You started it.”

He laughs and then Lexa laughs and you feel every worry you had drip out of you.

“Are we gonna get an explanation?” 

You give your mom an apologetic smile and shake your head. “Raven and Lincoln should be here soon and it’s just—I need time. But, you know, good to see you guys again,” you offer weakly. “This is my girlfriend, Lexa.”

“I can start crying too, if that would make you feel more comfortable, Clarke.”

Lexa actually winks and you’re not sure what to do. Your dad is smitten already. 

“I don’t think I like how this is starting out.”

“I think I love it,” your dad grins.

You’re halfway to a witty retort when the doorbell rings, and you’re out of your chair immediately. You walk backwards toward the door, making sure you can see your parents as they follow you.

“Mom, remember how you said you always wanted me to be a scientist when I grew up?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you’re gonna be happy I chose politics instead.”

/

Raven bursts in the door louder than you thought she would. She greets your parents with yells of ‘Jake!’ and ‘Abby!’ while Lincoln holds his hand out to shake. Lexa rolls her eyes at the same time you do. She grabs Raven’s suitcase and then also Lincoln’s, even though he yells for her not to.

Raven takes advantage of having two free hands and massages her leg. Your mom, always the doctor, notices right away.

“Sore from the ride over?”

Raven shakes her head. “Perpetual bum leg, but I’m working on it.”

“Oh.” Something blossoms in your mom’s cheeks and then dies just as quickly.

You all migrate to the kitchen again, your mom fixing more mugs as Raven and Lincoln go through their introductions. Everyone settles until you find you aren’t mourning what could have been, but rather savoring what is. Lexa finds your hand under the table, and her eyes are wet when she looks at you, and you know she’s savoring, too.

Lincoln, for once, is an open book.

/

You don’t sleep through the night. Two thirty comes with a bright moon and a breeze that rattles your windows. Lexa grumbles until you kiss her forehead. You slide quietly out of the room, intending to lull yourself back to sleep with another cup of cocoa.

Instead, you freeze when you step into the hallway. Raven’s door is open and your mom is peering through the crack.

“Mom?”

She turns around with a gasp and you recognize the look on her face because you’ve felt it.

“Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez, Mom…”

She walks over to you and you grab her hand, leading her down the stairs. The house creaks the way it always has. Your feet instinctively find the outsides of the steps, the parts that don’t groan under weight.

“You’re not sneaking out anymore, Clarke,” your mom says, and you laugh.

“A little late to bust me for it even if I was.”

A few minutes later and you’re cozy on the couch with two mugs of cocoa and your mom’s stash of good chocolate.

You wait. Sometimes it’s the best thing to do.

“I thought she’d be better,” she finally says. “Her leg, I mean.”

“Better.” 

“She deserves a leg that works.”

“She has two working legs. One of them just short-circuits a little more frequently." 

“You’re being combative, Clarke.”

“No, I’m not. I’m waiting for you to ask me something I can answer.”

She folds her palm across her lips, stifling a sob. She doesn’t stop the tears from falling. You wonder about her, as you often have—what it is and what it was about Raven that inspired maternal feelings you rarely saw on the ground.

(In space, you loved your mother as much as your father taught you to love her, and he thought the world of her. She loved you right back.

And then she let you fall.)

“How is this even possible?”

You sigh, suddenly thankful for all of those long talks with Lincoln. “How come foxes show up as trickster figures in folk tales across cultures?”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter how, Mom. Knowing how it happened isn’t going to help you deal with it.”

“But I want to know _why_ I have to deal with it.”

You shrug. “Me, too. Maybe one day down the line we will.”

“That isn’t good enough, Clarke.”

You almost laugh. “God, do you hear what you’re saying? Do you have to make every problem my problem?” 

“It isn’t your problem, I just thought maybe you’d have some insight into what’s going on, since you’ve clearly been dealing with it longer than I have. Does Raven remember; does she have any ideas?” 

“Jesus.” You run your fingers through your hair and put your mug on the coffee table. You take your mother’s hands in yours and try your very best not to squeeze them as hard as you’re feeling. “Listen to me, Mom. Do you know when the last time I saw you was?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Before, in the first life.”

“Clarke…”

“Please.”

She sighs, just like you. “It was after the radiation. You fixed it and made sure we would be okay and told me to go to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night and watched you run away with a bag full of supplies. You didn’t say goodbye.” 

“You could have run after me.”

“Clarke…”

“You could have shouted, Mom.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“That was the last time you saw me,” you explain, “but that wasn’t the last time I saw you.” She tries to pull her hands away but you hold fast. “I went inland as fast as I could; I wanted to be somewhere far away from Arkadia. But you guys rebuilt and expanded and explored and I heard whispers everywhere I went, of the strange people from the sky. I kept moving. I tried not to stay in one place for more than a few months. But after so many years on the run, you get tired, and I just—I wanted to come home.” You shrug and tilt your head up, either to blink the tears away or to avoid looking at your mom. “I wanted to be safe and still again; I wanted you to tell me everything would be okay. So I stopped moving so fast and eventually there was a little boy I couldn’t heal—”

“You were a healer?”

“I had to make a living somehow. I’d stay in a village for a while, trade my services for food and a house.”

“Clarke, you could have—”

“There was a little boy I couldn’t heal,” you repeat, “and I knew I was only a few days away from an Arkadian outpost. I thought I could pass him on to a real doctor, maybe get a message to you and wait.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did. I found the outpost and a messenger and I left the kid in the med bay, and I thought it’d be days before you showed up. But I guess it was a newer outpost and you were still overseeing its installation because you walked past me a few hours later, discussing some kind of blueprints with Raven. She had—um, she had a scar on her right cheek and her bad leg was gone below the knee, but she laughed at something you said and it just didn’t feel like I fit anymore.”

“Clarke, you _always_ fit with me; you’re my daughter.”

You shake your head. “You never let me need you, Mom—”

“You never needed me! You had Dad and Wells and Finn and Bellamy and—”

“And who? Lexa? Almost every one of those people died on me, Mom. Everyone I loved died. Was I not good enough then? Was it punishment?” You want to pull your hands free so you can wipe away tears, but this time it’s your mother who has the vice-grip. “You made sure Raven got to the ground safely and you fixed her leg and I just—did you have any left? For me?” 

“I have been filled with so much love for you, Clarke, since the day you were born. Since every day you were born. Everything I’ve had has always been for you.”

“I didn’t feel it.”

“The ground changed you. It changed you so quickly and you were saying and doing things that terrified me; I—”

“Death changed me, Mom, not the ground. I killed so many people I didn’t need to.”

“What did you want me to do about it, Clarke?”

“I wanted you to pull the lever for me. I wanted you to tell me to stop.” 

“Oh, Clarke.” She releases your hands and backs further into the arm of the couch so she can pull you closer to her. “Clarke, I’m so sorry; I—” You close your eyes as she kisses your temple, smoothing your hair in that gentle way only mothers can manage. Moms aren’t perfect (yours least of all), but they are magic. “It’s okay, honey,” she soothes. “You can stop. You can let it go.”

“I tried so _hard_ , Mom. I tried so hard to take care of everyone and it didn’t work; why didn’t it—”

“Don’t worry about it anymore, Clarke; please.” You sniffle and shake your head, only stopping when she takes your cheeks in her hands, forcing you to look at her. “Listen to me, Clarke.” You look into her eyes, giving her the fullest attention you have in years, and you see a chancellor shining in there. “I failed you,” she says simply. “I failed you and I failed your father, and if you need time to be angry about that, it’s yours. But you let me know when I start failing you again. We’ll tell each other when to stop, okay?” 

You nod, even though you know it upsets her. “If,” you whisper. 

“Sorry?” 

“If,” you repeat. “ _If_ you start failing me. Although it would be pretty shitty to do that to me twice.” 

She smiles when you do, or you smile when she does. One of those; it’s always been a ‘different sides of the same coin’ thing with the both of you. You know this talk isn’t over, that she’s not the only one with apologizing to do. Failure and disappointment work both ways; you know that.

And, in a month or two, when you decide to pick up the conversation again, you know where to start.

/

Lexa is still asleep when you finally go back upstairs. You want to let her stay that way, because she’s beautiful when she sleeps. She’s beautiful all the time but especially when she’s free of responsibility. No one can carry duty like Lexa but you love her most when she can let it go. 

And yet, you need her most when she can shoulder yours, so you sit next to her in bed and play with her hair until she stirs.

Her eyes are still closed when she finally speaks. “Clarke.”

You stifle a smile and even out your voice, speaking slower than you usually do. When you were a kid, you loved to fool family members with impersonations of your mom. Everyone always said you were eerily good at it. “No, it’s Abby,” you finally say.

Lexa’s eyes shoot open and she sits up so fast you’re sure she’s dizzy.

“What— _Clarke_!” She shoves your shoulder and you laugh way too loud, the last remnants of your tears burbling out. Lexa, of course, notices immediately.

“I’m fine,” you dismiss, swatting away the hand that she reaches toward you. She grabs hold anyway, smoothing your palm with her thumb. “Had a talk with my mom, we both cried, and now she’s passed out on the couch. I caught her creeping on Raven about an hour ago and it all kind of clicked.”

“Were they close?” 

You furrow your brows at Lexa before you remember she wasn’t part of the hundred. Sometimes you forget the way in which she came into your life because it just feels like she always had a place in it. “Yeah, um, my mom’s the one who helped Raven get to the ground. I don’t know how they met on the Ark, but they trusted each other a lot.”

“Which bothers you.”

You sigh, thinking. “It bothers me now because I remember how it bothered me then, but it doesn’t bother me now. Does that make sense?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You bring her hand to your lips and kiss her fingers until her eyes twinkle. “Listen,” you finally say, “I know I told you I didn’t remember much about what happened before I died and that’s mostly the truth, but I just shared a story with my mom—” 

“You don’t have to tell me, Clarke.”

“No, not right now,” you agree, “but eventually. I don’t want to feel like we’re keeping secrets from each other.”

“I trust you.”

“I know you do.” You lean down until she kisses you. Sometimes you want to get lost in her, to get lost together. In your most irrational moments, you think about spilling the beans to Raven about everything and asking her to find a way to stop time. (If anyone could do it, it would be her.) But even if time were frozen, you would want to spend more of it with Lexa. You’ll never get enough of her, and the fact that you keep coming back seems like the universe feels the same way. Once you can shake your way back to reason, you feel validated.

“Sorry for waking you up,” you say when you pull apart. “I just really wanted to see you smile at me.”

“Then you’re not really sorry,” Lexa teases. But she does it with a grin, and you forgive her.

“I guess not,” you smile back.

She pulls back the covers. “Come lie down.” Lexa is too warm and her legs are sticky under the blankets, but you crawl in next to her anyway.

“I feel like I should warn you about my family,” you whisper. “They start arriving tomorrow.”

“There’s no Griffin relative that could scare me, Clarke.”

“Oh, I know. I’m not worried about that.” You adjust yourself in the bed until your arms are around her waist, your ankles knocking together. It’s probably your favorite place to be. “I have a list of people you’re only allowed to talk to for forty minutes, max.” 

“Why?” 

“Because any longer and they’ll never give you back.”

“Clarke.”

“You’re not allowed to talk to my great-aunt Ruth _at all_. She’ll love you too much.”

/

You leave Lexa alone for three minutes the next day, and when you come back she’s made a new best friend. Her name is Ruth, she’s ninety two years old, and apparently Lexa jogged out into the rain to help her walk in from the car. That must have been what your mom was watching from the window, because she clicked her tongue the same way she does for really adorable animals, and then hugged you for a full minute.

You have to roll your eyes.

Raven greets Lexa with a nod and a “Commander” when she comes back in, and you find your mother’s eyes quickly, shaking your head before she can say anything. To her credit, she takes a deep breath and lets the moment go, and you resolve not to roll your eyes next time.

You grab the scarf and coat that Lexa passes you as she keeps her attention riveted to your great-aunt. Ruth is known for her stories, and this one keeps going all the way through the kitchen (where you quickly fix a gin and tonic) and into the living room (where Lexa props a pillow against the loveseat just before Ruth sits down). You could recite this story with Ruth if you wanted, because once she’s found a good tale she never changes the words, but something about watching Lexa listen makes it feel like new.

Ruth lands the punch line with a straight face and Lexa laughs, as close to uproarious as you’ve ever seen her. You can only rest your temple on your hand and marvel at her.

“Clarke, Lexa here tells me she’s with you,” Ruth says after a long sip of her drink.

“She is,” you confirm. 

“For good?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll keep her around.”

“She’s got a steady job, a good house?”

“You could always ask her, Aunt Ruth.”

“I could, but I’m asking you.”

“I don’t think either of those things really matter when you love someone.”

“Well, of course not,” Ruth scoffs, “but you can’t let a rich one go if you manage to snag them.”

“I’m far from rich, Ms. Eliot,” Lexa laughs.

Ruth narrows her eyes and finishes her drink. “And you’re honest, too.” She gives Lexa her empty glass and Lexa goes to refill it. You have no doubt she’ll make it perfectly. “When she _gets_ rich,” Ruth says, leaning closer as Lexa walks away, “you invite me over for a few weeks. I always wanted to die in a mansion.”

You can hear Lexa’s laugh echo from the kitchen.

/ 

You settle into your family over the next few days. Or, to put it more correctly, Lexa settles you. She takes shit from your cousins and gives it right back; she helps your mom cook and both of them come out of the kitchen looking lighter each time. Lexa knocks back shots with your uncles, always conceding first. You’re sure she’s going to drink them under the table at Christmas.

(And sometimes, she disappears into the rarely occupied study with Lincoln and a six-pack. You stopped outside the door once, as quietly as you could. There was more talking than you’d expected, given the two of them; Trigedasleng so fast you could barely understand it. 

You’d listened for a few moments and then walked away. Lexa never explained and you never asked, but you did make sure there was always a healthy beer stash for any future absences.)

You have plans to leave on Sunday, so you find your dad on Friday. Everyone else is down for an afternoon nap or playing a game of touch football. Lexa will come back in a few hours with bruises for which you actually can’t take credit and fingers so chilly they shouldn’t be able to move. She’ll shove them down your shirt and you’ll yell and run away, but for now you’re happy to sit with your dad in the garage.

It’s a garage that wanted to be a lot of things because your dad has too many hobbies. He loves the idea of building things but he could never get the hang of it, so there are discarded tools everywhere. There’s an unfinished wine cabinet in the corner, half-filled with bottles he’s probably already forgotten about. The only constant has been his ratty armchair, a bulwark in the face of every one of your mother’s nerves. An equally dilapidated sofa rounded out the decor when you and your mom started butting heads in high school, but he could give that up if he had to. Somewhere in his will, he’s asked to be buried in the armchair; you’re sure of it.

You grab an apple and a family-size bag of chips on the way. He’s already halfway into a two-liter bottle of root beer when you sit down.

You flip him the apple. “I don’t know how you can stomach these things at the same time.”

“Some of us just have a more refined palate, Clarke.”

“That’s a funny way to say gross.”

“Says the girl who dips her pretzels in mayonnaise.”

“It was _one time_ —”

“Yeah, yeah. I bet if I asked Lexa it might at least be two.”

You throw a chip at him, which he ends up catching in his mouth before he almost folds himself off his chair.

You’ve missed this, goofing off with him the way you’re supposed to with your parents. You can remember how much it hurt to lose him, to watch him die, but as soon as you start to get choked up about that, you remember the house-wide battle you had with toy guns at your twenty-first birthday party. You had a life with him, and you lost him, and it hurt like hell. But now you _have_ this life with him, and you can make it whatever you want.

“You doing alright, kiddo?” He takes one last giant bite of his apple and lobs it into the trash, cursing when it misses by a good six inches.

You nod too enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m totally good.” 

“Because your mom might have backed off, but I’m still scratching my head about why you burst into tears not even a minute after you said hi.”

Your cheeks flush. You want to have this conversation with him but you just…can’t. It doesn’t make sense to put yourself through that pain when he clearly doesn’t remember any of it, and couldn’t remember the most important parts even if he did.

“It’s a long story, Dad. I promise I’m mostly over it though, so no need to worry.”

“I always worry about you.” 

“I know, I— _damn_ it.” Even that is enough to get the tears going again. “It would sound crazy if I told you all of it.”

“Tell me some of it,” he pushes. “Is it about Lexa?”

“What about Lexa?”

“You two are very close.”

“Dad. We’ve been together for over a year now. Or are your faculties starting to abandon you?”

“Oh, shut up; I know how long you’ve been together. I just meant—you know Jim?” 

Do you know Jim. Jim, your dad’s closest friend of fifty years. Jim, his best man; the third person to hold you as a baby; the man you called Uncle for ten years before you learned he wasn’t even related.

Do you know Jim; how _offensive_.

“I’m offended you would even ask that.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen.” He takes a swig of his root beer, the plastic bottle popping with his last gulp. “I love that man in a way I don’t love your mother, and if it came down to the two of them, I think I would leave her. I don’t know if I could define why we’re such good friends. I just know that sometimes, there are people who are meant to find each other, in whatever capacity. So when I say you and Lexa are very close, that’s what I mean.”

“Okay,” you whisper, swallowing everything else you intended to say. 

“Am I close?” 

“Yeah. Yes,” you affirm, clearing your throat. “I love—I’ve loved Lexa for longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Metaphorically?”

“No.”

He leans across his chair and sticks his hand in your bag of chips, breaking all of the good, big ones. He crunches on a few of them before he speaks again.

“That’s pretty crazy.”

“I told you.”

If there were pillows out here you’d throw one at him. But there aren’t, so you content yourself with switching to the other side of the couch and keeping the chips out of reach.

The garage door opens two minutes into your comfortable silence, revealing a very dirty Raven on the other side.

“Oh, sweet,” she pants. “Just who I was looking for. Abby wants to talk to you.”

“Me?”

Raven rolls her eyes at you, blowing a strand of hair off of her cheek. “Do you call your mother Abby? No, not you; I was talking to Mr. G.”

Your dad rolls his eyes even bigger and flips his hair. You love when he makes fun of your friends. “You see that? She was talking to me. Raven and I are best friends.”

“I’m telling Jim!” you shout as he walks away. Raven plops down in his chair, groaning as she sags into the cushions. “Good football game?”

“What? No, I wasn’t playing football. I was fixing your car.”

“Raven, there’s nothing wrong with my car.”

“Sure, _now_ there isn’t.”

“Raven…”

“Do you doubt my abilities? I’m feeling very offended here.” She pretends to be hurt by the bag of chips you throw at her.

“Can I ask you something kind of crazy?”

“Always.”

“Do you want to be my maid of honor?”

“Oh my god, you’re _engaged?!_ ” Raven stands up quickly, the bag of chips crumpling under her feet as it falls off her lap.

“Those were my favorite chips…" 

“Clarke! Who cares! You’re engaged!”

“I’m not engaged. Sit down.”

“This is definitely more than kind of crazy.” 

“Are you sitting?”

“We should probably get you a dictionary; I don’t even think you know what crazy means.”

“I’m not talking to you until you sit down.” 

“Okay, okay.” She sits back down, grabbing the chips from the ground and scooping out a handful of broken bits. “You’re not engaged but you want me to be your maid of honor. Please explain.”

“I’m not engaged yet but when I _do_ get engaged, I would love it if you were my maid of honor.”

“That’s it?” Raven scrunches her nose. “No.”

“What? Rude.” You lunge for the bag of chips but she dangles them out of reach. “Why?”

“Duh. I’m gonna be Lexa’s best man.” 

“That’s—” You make another grab for the chips and come away successful this time. “Okay, fine. Lincoln can be my maid of honor.”

“Lincoln can _not_ be your maid of honor.”

“He’d probably even be better than you." 

“His bachelorette party would have us crying about feelings twenty minutes in.”

“Us? What do you mean, us? You can’t come; you’re Lexa’s best man.”

“Alright, I won’t be your maid of honor or Lexa’s best man, and then I’ll get to go to two parties. And on your wedding day, I’m gonna one-up you and marry myself.”

“That’s not a thing, Raven. You can’t do that.” 

“ _You_ can’t do that. I’m gonna get married and make history all on the same day.” 

“Okay, well, before you do that do you want to maybe—”

“Uuuugh, fine.”

“Love you, too.” 

/

Your dad makes a big speech that night at dinner, about how this birthday is his favorite one so far. He says it every year but this one feels different, and so you believe him. (This birthday is definitely your favorite of his, but that’s not really because of him.) Your family laughs and cheers and everyone pours another drink or three. After dinner is your favorite time of the night because you can slink off to a cozy corner with your favorite person and not feel like you’re being rude.

Lexa looks over her shoulder as you drag her away, trying to start a conversation with everyone she passes. But this is your time, and she’ll have all the parties in the world to talk to your family. So you pull her along until you find the room you used to use as a studio when you lived at home. It still has some paint flecks on the walls.

Lexa giggles into her wine when you pull her to a stop and you realize she’s a little drunker than you thought. She’s a little drunker than you know she’d want to be for this conversation, but you can’t leave this house without talking about it, and tonight feels right.

“This feels so clandestine, Clarke. I don’t want to alarm you, but I think your parents might already know about us.”

You can’t help smiling. “That’s not why we’re sneaking away, you goof.”

“Okay." 

“Can you ask me something?”

“I can ask you lots of things.”

“Lexa.” You take the wine from her, chuckling at her pout, and make sure she’s looking at you. Lexa looks at you fully, no matter the time of day or how much she’s been drinking or if she’s mad at you or what. You keep testing the _or what_ , just a little bit, to see if there’s a point at which she gets tired. But Lexa always has eyes for you, and you have never felt so loved.

She looks at you until the pout disappears, and you kiss her. You kiss her with your hands around her back, with your heart first and tongue (a very important) second. You kiss her until she hits the wall and you can press into her with more than just your mouth. You kiss her until her knees buckle, and she kisses you right back. 

“Clarke…”

“Can you ask me something?”

“You don’t want to ask me?”

You shake your head. “I mean, I do, but—I don’t know how to explain it without it sounding weird.”

“Okay.” She kisses you again, quickly, her hands on either side of your face. “Okay, hold on.”

She jogs out of the room; you can hear her ruffling around in the hall closet. Lexa comes back in moments later, looking sheepish with her hands clasped behind her back.

“See, this is why I want you to ask me. You were going to anyway, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Was it in your coat pocket the whole time?” 

Lexa shrugs. “We’ve been inside for almost a week; I knew you wouldn’t go snooping in there.”

“God, I love you.”

Lexa smiles. “How do you want me to ask you?”

“It’s actually a pretty simple question.”

“No, I mean as—as me, as the Commander…what do you need to hear, Clarke?”

“How were you going to ask me before?”

“Well, you’ve kind of ruined all my plans, and it turns out I’m so nervous now I’ve forgotten what I would have said anyway.”

You take a deep breath and smile, tucking two fingers into Lexa’s belt loop. “I want you to ask me as just you, as the Lexa who’s all those things and a million more I can’t wait to learn about.”

“Okay.” Lexa sits you on a dusty piano bench and kneels in front of you, taking your hand in both of hers. “There weren’t a lot of weddings in our clans, even fewer among warriors. Happiness was fleeting and fragile, and it seemed futile to promise ourselves to a bond that always ended up broken. Even those in love rarely married, preferring instead to simply stay together for as much time as the world allowed them. As the Commander, I knew I was allowed less time than most and so I tried not to love. But you—” Lexa lets go of your hand and wipes her eyes with a nervous giggle—“I bound myself to you. The loyalty I swore did not expire with my death or yours, and so I’d like to try again. I want to promise myself to you, to marry you and stay with you because the world has allowed us so much time and we will not let it break us.” She slips the ring on your finger before you even have a chance to say yes; before she even asks you, really. She kisses your hand in that goddamn chivalrous way of hers, and you almost trample all over her speech. “Will you marry me?” she finally asks.

You find, suddenly, that your throat is too tight for words. You nod, working your jaw until something comes out.

“Are you trying to say yes, Clarke?”

Your first attempt at sound is little more than a croak, so you keep nodding.

“Sorry, didn’t really catch that." 

“Lexa,” you finally blurt, “oh my god. Yes. Please, yes." 

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

You could care less about the ring, even though you know it must be beautiful. Lexa kisses your hand one more time and then lifts it, standing up with you until you catch her eye and both of you dissolve into laughter. She kisses you and you laugh into her mouth, pulling her into a hug that you don’t plan on ever ending.

Raven, of course, finds you minutes later and figures everything out. You’re being dragged through the house again, albeit for a different reason. Raven makes Lexa tell the story to everyone who stops you, and this time you don’t pull her away. You put your arm around her waist instead, lean your head against her shoulder, and listen over and over again.

There’s time.


End file.
